


Sandalwood and Summer Apples

by Systlin



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: All witchers and sorceresses are bisexual or pan I don't make the rules, F/M, In which Kiera realizes to her horror that she's caught Feelings, Kiera's canonical brass knuckles, M/M, Past Aiden/Lambert, Sorceresses canonical kink for Witchers, Swearing, The inherent sexy uses of Killer Whale when it comes to oral sex, Which let's be real Lambert would be Into, Witchers and sorceresses are all allergic to Having Emotions, because Lambert, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-28 08:55:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30137085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Systlin/pseuds/Systlin
Summary: In which Kiera Metz, to her abject horror, realizes that she's caught The Feelings while a certain prickly asshole witcher is doing his best to bleed out on her floor.
Relationships: Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Lambert/Keira Metz, Lambert/being a little shit, mentioned
Comments: 15
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

Lambert disliked cities, or claimed to. Kiera Metz, however, knew this to be mostly because cities were too damned full of smells and sounds and, well, people in general rather than any objection to the luxuries and amenities offered in civilization. Contrary to popular belief, Witchers did appreciate fine feather beds, silk sheets, hot baths, and good food. Kiera was half certain that, after experiencing all of those things on a regular basis in her company, she was never going to get rid of the Witcher again. It wasn’t as if she was keeping him there by force, after all; he was free to go as he pleased. But, however much he complained about the stench of the city, he still seemed to have no inclination to leave. Not that she was complaining; she’d grown to like having him around.

And she was, after all, a sorceress of no small power. She’d set herself up in Lan Exeter, and was doing quite well for herself. The fact that she’d worked enchantments into her wards that dulled the scents and sounds from the streets was a trifle, really. (not completely, because Lambert was the epitome of paranoid and liked to be able to keep track of what was going on outside at all times.)

  
(She had to admit, to be fair, that he had a point; he’d survived this long in a profession where most people and creatures DID want him dead, after all. And more than once on the road those inhumanly quick reflexes had kept them both alive.)

  
And, it turned out, cities still had uses aplenty for a witcher. Sewers attracted drowners and water hags and zeugels. The port and canals attracted sirens and harpies and yet more drowners. Succubi and incubi went where there were conquests to be had, and while most were relatively harmless one would sometimes develop a taste for blood along with sex. Such a concentration of people also attracted the odd vampire of lesser or greater power.

  
All in all, Lambert had been kept busy. He really needn’t have taken any contracts; her own incomes were more than sufficient to keep them both in comfort. But, despite his complaining about a witcher’s lot and the horseshit of shitty contracts and tightfisted clients, he still took them. Kiera suspected it was simply because he hated to be bored and liked to feel useful. And, all right, sometimes he brought her little things he’d found that he thought she’d like and that did delight her to no end; earrings of red coral, a lovely new embroidered dress, a new alchemy set, beautifully made, but well.

  
That last had more been a gift for them both, really. Lambert was, Kiera had gathered, the most skilled of the School of the Wolf with alchemy. None of the other Witchers had said as much, but Kiera had seen how Vesemir, Geralt, and Eskel had given way to Lambert readily in matters of alchemy, and had sought his opinions on matters regarding the discipline.

  
Quite frankly, he was fully her match when it came to alchemical knowledge, which had been a delightful surprise. His knowledge even outstripped hers in certain matters, namely how certain exotic reagents extracted from monsters or parts of monsters would react with certain herbs and chemical compounds. He had, she had to admit, been invaluable in formulating a treatment for the Catriona plague. That little discovery had made her (and him) wealthy, which made it even more clear that he took contracts more out of boredom and a wish to feel useful than need.

  
He was also, of course, very enjoyably skilled between those silken bedsheets she’d bought; Yen and Triss had been onto something all those years, it turned out. The fact that she actually found that she liked his company was really just a bonus. He was acerbic and bitingly prickly, but Kiera liked his wit, and well. He wasn’t usually wrong. And that wit was really quite funny at times.

  
It had gotten to the point that she rather missed his warmth beside her when she woke up one morning without him still snoring gently next to her. She sighed softly, drowsy yet, and then her brain caught up and she was all at once fully awake.

  
“Looks like a young ekimmara,” he’d said the previous morning, briskly oiling his silver sword with something that smelled vaguely herbal. “Taken up residence in a family mausoleum, and for once the tightfisted fucks are actually ponying up some decent coin for it. I should be back by tomorrow morning.”

  
Unsaid, of course, but understood, was unless it gets lucky. Lambert was an experienced and seasoned Witcher, and knew his craft well. But, well, all Witchers she’d ever met were fatalistic by nature, and Lambert was no exception; it had been trained into them along with swordsmanship. It was simply understood by each of them and assumed as the way of the world that any contract could be their last, that a stumble or a wrong step could mean their end like so many Witchers before them, dead alone and forgotten in some horrible little den somewhere.

  
The idea of Lambert’s bones mouldering forgotten in some filthy little rat-infested pit sent a twinge of something through Kiera that she didn’t much like.

  
Well, damn him and damn a witcher’s fate. Kiera Metz was a _sorceress_ , a member of the Lodge. Reality could have its way when she damn well felt like letting it. She dressed quickly and lost no time about heading downstairs, breezing past the girl she paid to come in and clean…she was a sorceress, damn it all, she was not going to sweep her own floors…and putting up a ‘closed’ sign in the little shop she sold her services out of. Somewhat to the confusion of poor Heloise the maid, who was more used to the cheerful face Kiera liked to show the world, she got to work at once.

  
One’s own essence was the easiest thing in the world to track magically, and Lambert had spent enough time in her company at this point that he was fairly soaked in it. It also did not hurt that before he’d left the previous afternoon he’d spent the better part of an hour with her set on the edge of a countertop, skirts hiked up around her hips and her thighs clamped around his ears, to be quite frank. Sex was a powerful source of magic, after all.

  
(He’d looked very pleased with himself and had been almost cheerful after as he set out. Kiera, still basking in the afterglow, had not commented on this.)

  
Just as she managed to trace him, though, she found that he was nearby. Surprisingly nearby, actually; she felt a surge of relief (relief?) even as the door to the shop banged open, tinkling the little bell she’d set up.

  
Then he staggered in, and the relief evaporated and was replaced blindingly quickly by horror.

  
Lambert was barely on his feet. He leaned heavily against the wall, one hand clamped tight to his left side. He was as white as a corpse, veins standing out stark and black under that parchment-pale skin, pupils of his eyes blown wide. After three years in the company of a Witcher, Kiera knew potion toxicity when she saw it, but he was paler even than his potions should render him.

  
Of course, the large quantity of blood he was dripping all over her floor probably had something to do with that.

  
With a hiss, he slid down to his knees, leaving a smear of too-dark blood down the wall, where it…sizzled? It was, it was sizzling, as if it was acidic and reacting with the whitewash.

  
“Fucking ekimmara,” he hissed to the air in general, “was lairing with a damned ancient katakan.”

  
And then he crumpled forward onto the floor, unconscious.

  
Kiera was on her knees beside him in a moment, clamping her hands over a rent in his armor that ran from his chest down to his hip as his hand fell away. The blood from the wound was too dark, too thick, and stung her fingers when she touched it. _Black blood_ , she thought; he’d told her a little about some of his potions.

  
There was a second wound on the back of his neck, also bleeding but more sluggishly. It was unmistakably from a set of fangs.  
Behind her, Heloise was shrieking. Kiera ignored this as she scrabbled and fought with Lambert’s clothes.

  
The armor and his leather jacket were shredded; they came off easily enough. The shirt underneath was more difficult; Lambert was slightly shorter and less heavily built than Geralt or Eskel, but he was by no means a small man and Kiera found that lifting nearly two hundred pounds of dead weight was beyond her, particularly when her hands were slippery with his blood. She pulled his belt knife and cut the shirt off of him in a few short strokes; he kept all his blades viciously sharp, bless him.

  
Her stomach twisted and plummeted further. Some terribly sharp claw had carved into him from chest to hip. The wound was deep, starting just below his left pectoral, and gradually shallower to the other end. White glinted sickeningly in the red and black of muscle and too-dark blood; she could count four of his ribs exposed in the deepest part of the scything blow. Half of a claw was still lodged in the lowest, snapped off where it had gotten trapped in Lambert’s bone.

  
“Get some water,” Kiera snapped, even as she gathered power in. Two of the houseplants she kept in the front window of the shop withered and died on the spot. A murmured incantation, and the blood loss slowed and stopped; Kiera felt like she’d been punched in the gut, and she’d still not sunk all of her power into it. Melitile knew how much more she’d have to call on for other unforeseen complications yet. “Now!” She added, when Heloise stayed rooted to the spot, mouth open, still caught between shrieks. “Then take it upstairs. I’ll need help.”

  
And with that she portaled herself and Lambert up one floor, directly into their bedroom. (their? How had it become their bedroom, rather than her bedroom that he was invited into?)

  
Heloise arrived a moment later with a bucket of clean water, still blubbering. The water boiled with a snap of Kiera’s fingers. She dismissed the girl to fetch a needle, silk thread, linen for bandages, and an assortment of antiseptic and healing herbs. The girl was still white as a sheet and trembling, which Kiera had no time for. She bossed the girl through assisting her, and made up her mind on the spot to find some more competent help for such emergencies once this was over. A medical student, perhaps? Most medical students would jump to study with a sorceress skilled in the healing arts.

  
“Why’s he look like that?” The girl managed at last, tremblingly, as Kiera was concentrating on stitching Lambert’s side back together with small, neat stitches after cleaning it and removing the fragment of claw.

  
“Because he got clawed by a vampire, you idiot.” Kiera’s temper was short. “Did you not notice the pool of blood when he came in?”

  
“No, mistress, I mean…” The girl haltingly reached a tentative hand out to prod at one of the dark veins visible under Lambert’s corpse-pale skin.

  
“Stop poking at him like he’s a melon at the market. He took potions for the fight. They’re probably the only thing that kept him alive. Witcher potions are toxic, they’d kill you or me. His system can cope with them, but taking a few at a time still taxes his system until it can neutralize the toxins.” She tied off the thread and wet a cloth, and began wiping away the blood; it was beginning to dry to a sticky, tacky mess. “Get a cloth and help me.”

  
The girl did, reluctantly. She seemed hesitant to touch Lambert at all. Kiera noticed this, and her ire built still further. She’d seen the looks her Witcher (her Witcher?!) garnered from the general idiotic public. Loathing, fear, revulsion…she’d seen all of those, and heard the curses muttered as he passed and seen people spit in the ground at his feet.

  
Lambert took this with his usual grace, which meant that she’d watched more than one human wet themselves when he’d spun on them and laid into them with that sharp tongue of his. But more often, he seemed simply resigned, if bitter and resentful. She found she couldn’t blame him, and his prickly demeanor had begun to not only seem understandable, but downright reasonable.

  
She’d hadn’t seen it overtly from her maid, though she was beginning to think it had simply been better hidden.

  
Between the two of them, they got the blood cleaned away. Kiera stripped his trousers off…they were filthy as well…and then began on his lower half. Heloise balked away from that; Kiera bit back her acerbic remarks. The girl was what, sixteen? A child, really…and likely hadn’t seen a naked man before.

  
A poultice of marigold and burdock over the stitches and on the bite wound, and then she began bandaging the injuries with strips of clean linen. That done, she hooked her arms under his shoulders and jerked her head at his feet. Heloise looked at her blankly.  
“His feet, you idiot, help me lift him.” Kiera said, exasperated.

  
Heloise did, and thankfully the girl was strong as an ox because Kiera had to admit that she was not exactly physically the burliest specimen around. She relied rather more heavily on her magic than her muscles. Between the two of them, they got him into bed, and Kiera sent the girl down to find his bag of potions.

  
She returned holding the leather satchel as if it would bite her and looking horrified all over again. “Mistress, there’s two great horrible _things_ tied to his saddle.”

  
“Of course there are, did you not hear him say he was fighting vampires? Give me that.” Kiera snatched the bag and rooted through it. “The stable boy best have seen to his horse, or I’ll have words for him.”

  
Lambert, bless him, was meticulous when it came to alchemy. Each of his vials of potion was carefully labeled; she’d heard him snipe at both of his brothers for simply relying on odor and color to distinguish their potions. Given that Geralt and Eskel had never, so far as she knew, mistaken one of their potions for another they had simply laughed him off at the time, but now she was glad of Lambert’s sense of order when it came to alchemy.

  
She found a vial marked ‘White Honey, Superior’, tilted his head back, pried his teeth apart, and poured it down his throat, pinching his nose until he swallowed and coughed. Compared to some of his more noxious concoctions, it smelled almost pleasant. The effects were quick; within moments some of the more hideous of the darkened veins began to fade slightly. It would take some time to neutralize the toxins, and until then she didn’t dare risk giving him a Swallow, but it was a relief to see the starker signs of potion toxicity begin to fade.

  
“I thought…”Heloise’s voice was soft behind her. “He just…looks like a man…”

  
Kiera rounded on her, furious, and the only reason she didn’t reduce the girl to a smoking crater on the spot was because she’d just had the floor waxed. “He is, you ungrateful little idiot.”

  
“But…”

  
“But what? He’s a Witcher? A mutant? He was a boy, a child just like you. He didn’t choose it, any of it. And even so he goes to face the things that make hapless fools like you cower in your beds at night, because someone must and because you ungrateful shits scrape together a paltry purse for it. Did you think that if they were cut they didn’t bleed? How do you think he got those scars? What did you think it looked like when a Witcher was killed?”

  
“I…I don’t…know…I didn’t…think…”

  
“That is abundantly clear. Get out. Get out and don’t come back.”

  
“Mistress…”

  
“If you set foot in my shop again I shall turn you into a mouse. Get out.”

  
The girl fled. Once she was gone, Kiera slumped into an armchair. Lambert, on the bed, did not so much as twitch.

  
Some time later, she went to check him. His pulse, normally so slow, was nearly of a pace with hers; racing, by Witcher standards. Working harder to try to compensate for blood loss, she knew; in humans in a similar state…well, they’d probably be dead, quite frankly. But in humans who’d lost a large amount of blood, the pulse would be fast and thready. The dark veins had faded, and she felt safe enough to find a Swallow potion in his satchel and coax it down his throat. He sputtered and coughed, but didn’t rouse, and she was again left alone with her thoughts, which was inconvenient.

  
Sitting there, watching her Witcher…and there it was again, her Witcher…breathe shallow and ragged, still and white and pale as death, let those dangerous other thoughts creep in. Thoughts such as _oh dear, Kiera, you really are quite afraid for him, aren’t you? A good deal more than you should be if he is simply a business partner and temporary lover, really._

  
 _Shut up._ She told those thoughts irritably, but they refused.

  
_One might almost think that you CARE, Kiera Metz. Think of that! Kiera Metz, mage advisor to kings, member of the Lodge, going soft over a Witcher…_

  
_Shut UP. It’s not like it would matter; he’s still in love with that dead Cat school lover of his anyway, I’m just convenient._

  
She brooded, which really if she’d thought about it was a sign that he was rubbing off.

* * *

He didn’t wake that day, or most of the next. She managed to rouse him enough to get some warm broth into him, but barely, and as soon as she let him he sank back down into complete unconsciousness again.

  
His wounds, however, knitted astoundingly rapidly. By evening of the second day they had scabbed and knit as if he’d spent a week healing, rather than a day and a half. A Witcher’s body was truly a marvel; with his natural healing systems boosted by those potions of his, a little color even began to come back to his face as his body hurried to replace the blood he’d lost.

  
At noon the second day, Kiera felt certain enough that he was stable and healing that she made a little trip to the house of the Rysshon family, with two vampire heads in tow.

  
“As you can see,” she said to Estred Rysshon, patriarch of the minor noble house, gesturing to the heads that she’d dumped unceremoniously on his fine Zerrikanian carpets. He was making pained noises at the stains slowly spreading from the still-leaking trophies, but Kiera didn’t much care. “He not only successfully completed his contract, but rid you of a second vampire as well.”

  
“My business dealings were with the Witcher Lambert of the School of the Wolf,” Estred was looking down his nose at her, which rather made Kiera want to melt a few of his bones on the spot. “Not with…I do not believe that I caught your name.”

  
Kiera smiled sweetly, which any member of the Lodge could have told Estred was a warning sign. “Oh, my mistake. Kiera Metz, Sorceress, and Witcher Lambert’s business partner.” She proffered her hand, and when he at first made no move to take it raised her eyebrows fractionally. He huffed but the word ‘sorceress’ seemed to have triggered some latent survival instinct; he gingerly kissed her hand, with clear reluctance. “Lambert was seriously injured during the fight, and is recuperating. As I cannot say how long it will be before he is able to collect in person, I came on his behalf.”

  
“Ah. He lives, then?”

  
“He will recover fully. Witchers are remarkably resilient.”

  
“Of course, of course.” She still saw a somewhat reluctant twist of his mouth as he rummaged in his desk and withdrew a leather pouch; he likely would have been thrilled if Lambert had died in his family mausoleum, so much carrion to be cleaned out with the vampire corpses. “The price we agreed; one thousand orens.”

  
“Ah,” Kiera added just a touch more sweetness to her smile. “But of course, there were two vampires, both of which he killed, nearly being slain himself. In light of this, and to compensate for the time he must spend away from his craft to recuperate from the injuries sustained on your behalf, I do believe it would be appropriate to double the fee.”

  
Estred’s smile froze like glass in winter. “Excuse me?”

  
“Yes, double at minimum.” Kiera continued breezily. “Particularly since the second vampire seems to have been a quite old and quite powerful specimen; you’re lucky that Lambert is as skilled and adept at his craft as he is, or you’d still find your family mausoleum to be quite impossible to visit, I think.”

  
“How dare…”

  
“Indeed.” Kiera tapped her index fingers against her lips. “He took more serious injuries in this fight than even those he sustained when we fought the Wild Hunt. Oh! Now that was a fight. Did you know, though, even the Riders of the Wild Hunt succumb to having their limbs ripped off with a good spell. That’s how we met, did you know?”

  
Estred went very still. Kiera smiled back, venomously sweet. “But I don’t think I’d waste my magic on you, Estred….no, don’t bother summoning your guards, I’ve incapacitated them quite thoroughly, sleeping spells are really quite simple, I mastered them my first year at Aretuza…I think I’d just break your teeth in.” She slipped her hand into the pouch at her side; when she pulled her hand out, her brass knuckles were in place. “Really, I am being remarkably patient with you right now.” She let a bit of magic creep in, white sparks of electricity dancing at the ends of her hair.

  
“I suppose.” Estred was eyeing her brass knuckles with some trepidation, eyes flicking back to her face now and then. “That some increase in the fee would be appropriate.”

  
“I knew you’d see sense.” She slipped her brass knuckles back into their pouch as he, with immense reluctance, opened a safe and began counting out coins.

  
Two thousand orens safely in hand, she left the vampire heads bleeding on Estred’s fine carpets and portaled back to her shop.  
She laid the purse on the bedside table and checked Lambert’s injuries; they were healing well, with no signs of infection. As she cleaned the injury and prepared fresh poultices, Lambert stirred under her touch, hissing through his teeth. She gentled her touch as much as possible, but his jaw was still tight when his eyes blinked open. It seemed to take him a moment to focus on her face.

  
“ _Fuck_.” His voice was a hoarse rasp. “That hurts like a bitch.”

  
“Considering that you still had half a katakan’s claw in your chest,” Kiera said. “I am not surprised. Lie still, let me get you something for that.”

  
It was the work of a few minutes to put together a painkilling brew, extra heavy on the tincture of poppy. Kiera had spent a bit of trial and error getting dosages adjusted for a Witcher metabolism; they took several times the dose that would kill most people to be effective, and they lasted for far less time than they would have on a normal human. Those same Witcher mutations that neutralized toxins so quickly and efficiently did the same to opiates and other painkilling substances.

  
Lambert gave the mixture a sniff when she presented it to him; he always did, even though the mug could have been full of distilled aconite and amanita and probably not done worse than give him some unpleasant cramps. “Honestly, Lambert?”

  
“Like to know what sorta ride I’m in for.” He mumbled, and then knocked the whole mug back in one long pull. “Fuck.”

  
“It can’t taste worse than whatever you dosed yourself with for that fight.”

  
He simply let his head fall back against the pillows, eyes closing. After a few minutes, the tight set of his jaw and the lines between his eyebrows eased, and she went back to work, finishing up cleaning the healing slash, slathering on fresh poultice and began bandaging him up again. “I’ve no idea how you managed to get back here; that should have killed you.” She said at last.

  
“Black blood.” Lamber’s voice was slurred and slow. “Slows blood loss. Took Swallow as well, and I was working to keep my heart rate down. If I’d had some Kiss I’d have been fine.” A long pause, and then, still slower and softer. “Vesemir’d have my ass for not having some on hand.”

  
“Well, it worked, just. Don’t do that again.”

  
“Careful, Metz.” Even missing half his blood and doped half out of his mind, he managed that little knife-edged half grin that made her warm in all the right places, and oh _no_ , but she was gone on this damned infuriatingly stubborn and prickly Witcher. The knowledge hit her like a kick to the chest. “Might start to think that you care.”

  
“Hush.” She was not ready to deal with all of _that_ quite yet. “I got your payment, it’s just there, and I made that waste of air pay you extra. Don’t get up. You need to sleep, and eat later. You’ve burned through most of your body’s reserves healing. I’ll have to go out and find some soup.”

  
“Jus’ have…” A pause then, and the wrinkle between his eyebrows reappeared as he tried to concentrate through the fog of poppy. A beat, and a frown, and she knew he was registering that there was not a third heartbeat in the house.

  
“No. I dismissed her. I’ll be hiring a new maid.”

  
“T' fuck…”

  
“Because she made some comments regarding you that I did not care for, Lambert. I’ll not stand for that sort of prejudice in my house.”

  
“…oh.” A pause, and then the grin was back. _Oh, dear_. “You _do_ care. Look at that, Kiera Metz, falling for my manly charms…”

  
 _Damn_ Witchers and their too-keen senses and too-sharp minds, even stupid on opiates. “I’ll not have staff in my home resenting any of the sources of income which pay their salary. As I said, I’ll simply have to find a new maid. In the meantime, you are to lie here, go to sleep, and not pull out those stitches. I will go out and place an order with the restaurant at the corner.”

  
“…was inevitable, really. ‘S my winning personality…” He was grinning his most shit eating grin now, made no less effective by the fact that he was high on painkillers, his entire chest was swathed in bandages and he was lying on slightly bloodstained pale blue silken sheets.

  
“Hush or I’ll spell you asleep again.”

  
“…and my big, fat, c…”

  
She portaled out before she heard the end of that sentence.


	2. Chapter 2

The restaurant at the corner knew her by sight, and indeed kept a table reserved especially for her. When she swept in, the waitstaff bowed and greeted obsequiously the way that they only did for people known to be generous with their coin. She waved them off.

“No, I shall be wanting it delivered today.”

“Of course, lady sorceress, of course, what will be your pleasure?”

She placed a lengthy order, for soup and bread and plenty of both, and arranged a second order to be delivered the following day. As she was settling the bill, her eye caught on one of the waitresses briskly cleaning away the dishes from some just-departed patrons with deft efficiently.

She’d seen the girl before. Though the girl did not know it, she had gained the sorceress’ favor since settling in Lan Exteter, largely because she treated Lambert no differently than any other patron. Rather better, actually, since Lambert was usually with Kiera and Kiera knew very well the benefits of being generous with coin to the people who served one’s food.

Lambert appreciated the fair treatment as well; Kiera knew this because he hadn’t once leaned his chair back, insolently kicked his boots up on the nice linen tablecloths, idly spinning an eating knife between deft fingers, and making direct eye contact while daring a fool to give him a reason. This had happened in several other establishments.

Really, Kiera’s pull as a sorceress…and her willingness to pay to replace a few smashed items of furniture and for laundering the blood out of table linens… was the only reason her Witcher wasn’t banned from half of the restaurants in Lan Exeter, and for that matter establishments in several other countries in the Northern Realms. Though, to be quite fair, he never had started such a conflict, at least that she’d seen. He was ever willing and indeed delighted to _finish_ one, but never without being offered insult first.

“You.” She said suddenly. “Yes, you,” as the girl looked around and blinked. “What are your wages here?”

The girl dropped a quick curtsey; rather rough and clumsy, but quite acceptable for a working class girl. “Ten orens a week, m’lady sorceress.”

“I find myself in need of a maid and assistant.” Kiera said. “I will pay you thirty orens a week, and pay for three new dresses immediately, and three more per year of your employment plus meals during working hours. Plus, of course, there shall be no drunken patrons attempting to grope your breasts in my home. You can start immediately.”

Fifteen orens a week was a decent wage for Lan Exeter, let alone the other benefits mentioned. The girl grinned, sharply, and immediately began removing her apron.

“Mila?” The owner of the restaurant, counting Kiera’s coin into the money box, stared. “Mila, you cannot…”

“I will need you to stop by the market before reporting to my shop.” Kiera added thoughtfully. “There are a few things I need, and I must see to Lambert.” She drew another handful of coin out of her purse; Mila held out a hand and Kiera began counting out money. “Of course, if you try to steal it and run off…”

“You would find me, yes.” Mila said calmly.

“So glad you understand. I need calendula, burdock leaf, wolfsbane, yarrow, and do pick up whatever fresh fruit looks best. A selection, I think. Drop by Vladimir’s tailoring shop and place an order for two fresh men’s shirts, in the previous size, and have him charge them to my account. Lambert’s gone through another this week. Order yourself those three new dresses while you are there, also charged to my account. If you’ve not yet eaten, get yourself something. Come and report to my shop as soon as you are finished.”

“Of course, m’lady sorceress.” The girl was practically vibrating with glee at this sudden stroke of luck.

“ _Mila_!” The restaurant owner sounded both shocked and outraged. Well, who could blame him? Good help was hard to find.

“Sorry, Andrei,” said Mila, who did not sound sorry at all.

“You cannot simply quit on me like this, in the middle of the lunch rush!...”

Kiera gave him a pointed look, and he subsided, if reluctantly “Don’t cause a scene.” She said sharply. ”It’s business, I know you understand it. Have my order delivered as soon as possible.”

* * *

Lambert was asleep by the time she got back. He slept the next several hours, and continued sleeping as Mila arrived with several packages and a couple shop boys in tow bearing more. She bossed them in through the door with an imperiousness that seemed to come naturally even though she’d become a sorceress’ assistant and maid a scant few hours ago, and Kiera silently congratulated herself for her choice in employees.

Kiera supervised the unwrapping and storing of the purchases, showing Mila around the house and shop and where things were to be kept, where things were, and giving her a rundown of her new duties. The herbs went into the back room of the shop, where the alchemical laboratory was set up, carefully stowed. The fruit went into the icebox that Kiera kept chilled with a cantrip, save for some grapes, which Kiera nibbled on. Lamberts new shirts (“Vladimir said that he’s taken to having a few made up and on hand,” Mila said. “Given how they seem to come to dismal fates so often.”) Went upstairs into the dresser.

Mila paused in the doorway, taking in the bandaged and sleeping Witcher in the bed. Kiera waited, hoping that such a promising employee wasn’t about to ruin things.

“What happened?” Mila’s voice, when it came, was hushed.

“A katakan. A type of vampire,” Kiera clarified, when the word ‘katakan’ drew only a blank look. The girl blanched slightly.

“Will he be all right?” That seemed to be genuine concern. Kiera relaxed.

“He will. Witchers are hardy; they can survive wounds that would kill most people. Here, put those here.”

Lambert stirred, roused by their footsteps and voices. As the shirts were stowed away, he cracked one amber-gold eye open, which caught the light in the dim room. (Kiera had drawn the curtains shut.) That catlike reflective layer in Witcher’s eyes was always so strange to see, but Kiera had come to see it as rather a lovely thing rather than a mark of their strangeness.

“Who’re you?” A slow blink, and then “Oh, you’re the girl from Andrei’s.”

“She’s my new maid and assistant now.” Kiera told him. “Go back to sleep.”

“So fucking _bossy_.” Lambert grumbled. “Do they like, give lessons on that in Aretuza? I’ve _been_ sleeping, had about enough of it.”

“Yes, right alongside simple cantrips and directly before political machinations. How are you feeling?”

“Like a vampire tried to fuckin rip me in half.” He relented a bit at her look. “Better. Still hurts like fuck, but better. And I have to piss.”

“Do you want something for it?” She went to help him up, but he waved her off and wincingly hauled himself to his feet.

“I’m not decrepit _yet_ , damn. And no.”

“You needn’t suffer in some sort of stoic silence, you know, if you’re trying to prove a point.” He just rolled his eyes at her.

Mila’s eyebrows rose a bit as he made his cautious way across the room and behind the privacy screen, still entirely naked; Lambert was quite well formed, all wiry dense muscle, broad shoulders, and a really quite shapely ass. The scars lent him an air of rakish danger, in her opinion. The door to the lavatory clicked open and shut. One of the benefits of proper civilization, in Kiera’s opinion; water closets.

As he vanished, Mila eyed the sheets. Despite Kiera’s efforts to clean the blood off of him, Lambert had still left bloodstains. With quick, efficient movements the girl began to strip the sheets off, bundling them into a pile. She raised an eyebrow at Kiera, who nodded to the trunk at the end of the bed, pleased. By the time Lambert re-emerged from the lavatory, with a towel wrapped around his hips as at least a vague effort towards modesty, she was smoothing the quilts back over fresh sheets, and the dirtied ones had been bundled into a laundry bag. Kiera congratulated herself once again.

“Poppy always makes me queasy, and I’m hungry.” He gingerly stretched, twisting his torso, and winced. He’d apparently at least dunked his head under the tap; his hair was damp and dripping.

“Mm, I bet you are. Like I said, your body’s burned quite a lot of energy healing your injuries and producing new blood cells. I warrant you’ve lost four or five pounds in the last two days.” It really was a pain, trying to get any food to stick to his ribs. That enhanced Witcher’s metabolism seemed to burn through calories as fast as toxins. Still, he’d lost a little of his half-starved look in her regular and generous company, but the last few days had definitely whittled away some of his scanty fat reserves. “The food should be delivered shortly. Are you thirsty?”

“As hell.”

“Mila?” The girl hurried to the well without being asked twice.

Kiera…she was not fussing, she was _not_ …helped Lambert back into bed, propping him up against a nest of pillows, and checked the bite wound on his neck. It was healing beautifully.

“I really think that this one doesn’t need the bandage any longer… Lambert, hold still…”

“It fuckin _itches_.” Lambert seemed entirely unrepentant. He rolled his shoulders, stretching his arms out carefully, which did interesting things with his shoulder and arm muscles, wincing again. “I’m fucking stiff as a board, and not in a fun way. How long was I out?”

“Two days.”

He grimaced. “Fuck.” A pause. “Y’know, I used to give Geralt shit for following Yennefer around like a lost fuckin’ puppy.” Another pause. “And okay I still will, that ‘destined romance’ shit they’ve got going on is disgusting. But I’ll admit, I’m starting to see some of the appeal. This beats the hell out of waking up facedown in a ditch and having to sew my own ass up.”

Any retort she had about the relatively unblemished condition of his ass (one of the few places he did not have scars) was cut off by Mila arriving with an ewer of water and a mug. Lambert grabbed both greedily and set about assuaging what was undoubtedly a case of mild dehydration; she’d not been able to get much into him the last couple of days.

The food arrived shortly after, and Lambert fell on his soup and bread like a starving wolf. Kiera sighed through her nose; she’d thought that she’d managed to teach him some table manners.

She didn’t press the issue, though. She supposed that given the circumstances she’d allow it to slide.

Hm. Really, she’d developed a habit of letting quite a lot slip by when it came to Lambert, really.

Oh, she _was_ properly fucked, wasn’t she?

* * *

Later that same evening, and after some wheedling on her Witcher’s part, she relented and portaled them both to the pocket dimension where she kept her private bath.

“Now,” she told him as he sank into her heated pool with a nearly indecent groan, “Remember what I said, do take it easy.”

“M’ _fine_.” He took a breath and vanished beneath the surface of the pool as she delicately stepped in herself. He remained under for several minutes, longer than anyone should have been able to without drowning; the first time he had done this she’d become somewhat concerned, but he’d eventually surfaced as if it was nothing and scoffed at her. _Witchers_.

He’d later introduced her to some novel and delightful uses for a particular one of his potions, one he called ‘Killer Whale.” Kiera was fairly certain that the mages and alchemists who’d invented those brews centuries before were rolling over in their graves at one of the potions they’d invented to give a Witcher an edge with water-based creatures being used so, but well. It was terribly difficult to care when it opened up such delicious possibilities involving a Witcher’s mouth and that delightful tingling buzz of their touch as one lazed back up to one’s chin in hot water.

She set about washing her hair. Lambert eventually emerged from the depths of the pool, seated himself on the bench that ran around the edge underwater, and let himself slump bonelessly back against the rim, up to his shoulders.

“You’re a fuckin’ genius.” He said, eyes closed. “For this place. Have I ever mentioned that?”

“Every time we use it, but don’t let that stop you.” She eyed him, checking to see that none of his injuries were opening back up, but none were. Her eyes caught on a droplet of water clinging to that short-cropped beard. It fell, hit his chest, and slid slowly down his skin, catching on the edge of an old scar.

Another trait she’d noted in Witchers; none of them seemed to have any idea how damned attractive they were. Completely oblivious, every one of them. Kiera had wondered more than once why in Melitile’s name every Witcher she’d ever met had the gall to be so damned handsome. It was really exceptionally rude of them.

One amber eye cracked open and regarded her speculatively. “Like what you see, princess?” He’d started calling her that because at first it had annoyed her, but she’d grown to not mind it. He’d not stopped even once he’d determined that it was no longer getting a rise out of her.

 _Damn_. His sense of smell, even over the scent of soaps and bath oils and salts, was sometimes so inconvenient. Kiera was a skilled liar and dissembler; most sorceresses were. But it was remarkably difficult to hide things like arousal from a man who could, quite literally, sniff it out.

“I’d not keep you around if I did not.” She said primly. “I’ve told you before, I’ve always fancied men with dark hair.”

He smirked and moved towards her.

“No.” She said sternly. “Oh, no. You’re only barely halfway healed, I…oh!”

 _That_ was another thing she had found quite impossible to get used to. Witchers all emanated a certain magical aura, and when one touched you, if you were a trained and powerful sorceress, their touch brought with it a peculiar tingling buzz of energy. And to think, she’d once thought Yennefer mad for being so very taken with her White Wolf. What could a monster hunting brute offer, really? She’d said as much, years and years ago. It hadn’t made even a dent in Yennefer’s opinions, of course, and now here she was, admitting even to herself that she’d been a fool as another Witcher’s hand stroking up her thigh turned her knees to jelly.

“So I’ll be all careful and shit,” Lambert said, and lowered his head to nip at her ear. That tingled too, and went right down her spine.

“You lost too much blood, you shouldn’t even be able to…” Even as she said it, he pressed closer, and it became abundantly clear that he absolutely could. “Incorrigible.” She muttered, even as she wrapped her legs around his thighs. “If you tear out those stitches I will be very cross.”

He didn’t say anything, for once. His mouth was being put to much better use, following the line of her neck down to her shoulders. She allowed this to carry on for a few delightful moments, and then pushed up from the bench, gently but firmly turned them around, and pushed him down onto it. For once in his life he went easily, grinning as she moved to straddle him where he sat, her knees to either side of his hips.

“You are not,” she said again, sternly. “To strain yourself.”

“Mnng.” He said something muffled but distinctly unrepentant from where his face was buried between her tits. _Men_.

Then he mouthed his way over to a nipple, and thoughts became extremely difficult. She groped blindly for a moment, took his cock in hand, and slid herself down on it without preamble.

“Fuck!” That got him to throw his head back, eyes closed, bucking up against her as she bore down, his hands going tight on her hips. “Fuckin’ _warn_ a man, Metz…”

She kissed him. As usual, it shut him up immediately. She rolled her hips, hard, and he groaned and shivered underneath her. Pleasure frissioned up her spine, and the thick glide of him inside her was scattering her thoughts to nothing. She’d _meant_ to be slow, and careful, but somehow that went all out the window nearly at once.

He wrapped a forearm around her hips, braced his feet, and thrust upwards with just enough of that enhanced strength to make it exciting. She bit his lip and let it drag between her teeth, and something feral kindled in those gold eyes of his. His next thrust was harder still, and she clutched at his shoulders and threw her head back. Her orgasm was approaching far more quickly than she’d anticipated.

“Fuck.” Lambert panted between his teeth, and readjusted to give himself a better angle, hips setting a hard, quick pace. “ _Fuck_. Yeah, _yeah_ , that’s it, lemme see it…”

She rolled her hips again, nearly desperate, rutting shamelessly against him. Another hard thrust, and everything faded away in a burst of light and sweetness. Just barely, she heard him grunt a muffled curse and felt him shudder violently underneath her, all his muscles tensing as he groaned wordlessly.

It took her a few minutes to piece her thoughts back together. Languid in the warm water, limbs loose in the aftermath of pleasure, she made no effort to move off of his lap, her cheek against his shoulder. He made no effort to move for a few moments either, until he finally made to stretch his legs out with a self-satisfied rumbling hum deep in his chest. She felt him wince, and sat quickly up.

“Stand up.”

“M’ _fine_ , Melitele’s _tits_. It’s fine…”

Sure enough, three stitches had popped, and the cut had begun to ooze again. Not much, but still. She sighed and glared at him, rather ineffectually. He seemed entirely unrepentant. “Worth it,” he simply said, still smug, reaching for the soap. “Fuck, I’ve gotten worse paper cuts, stop fussing.”

“You,” she informed him, retreating to finish soaping herself up. “Are _terrible_.”

Telepathy was always rather more sensitive after orgasm. She generally tried to keep it tamped down a bit; she liked basking in her own afterglow, not having to hear someone else’s thoughts, and ordinarily she kept it controlled because reading other people’s so often petty and tedious thoughts was a bore and a distraction. Now, though, she relaxed her shields.

Whoever had said that Witchers were emotionless machines who cared for nothing but killing was an idiot. Kiera wasn’t sure how the mages who’d engineered them had ever managed to convince themselves that their efforts towards such an effect had worked. Lambert was a veritable roil of emotions regularly; even someone with the most limited telepathic gift could pick up on that. Anger and frustration were often dominant and the first one noticed, but in the present situation those had receded to more of a distant twinge. Relaxing her shields and letting herself examine the shape of his thoughts was…an experience.

Irritation was there, aimed at himself for not spotting the trace signs of a katakan mingled with those of the ekimmara. Irritation at the damned vampire for managing to fillet his side like a trout, at himself for not being quicker with his dodge, at himself for not having the potion on hand that would have saved him. Fear, fading, but still present from the moment he’d realized that it was a wound that he’d not survive without aid. Anger, yes, for what had been forced on him, this fate; dying because of a stupid misstep in a stupid vampire’s lair because they’d taken him, trained him, strapped him to a table and poured mutagens into him without ever once giving him a choice. Anger at himself for a multitude of past mistakes and sins. Regret, for many things. Sorrow, ever-present, for his lost Cat school lover. The memory of regret that he’d never see her again, as he'd been bleeding out in that mausoleum between two vampire corpses, the scent of dust and rot and blood heavy around him, and the sheer stubborness that had made him struggle to his feet again.

The sense of _her_ was mingled with the smell of her perfume, sandalwood and summer-ripe apples. Fondness, deep fondness, also tangled up with the scent of her perfume, a warmth in his chest that he still didn’t quite trust, sure that this was going to be torn away too, the instinctive urge to hide that under the armor of anger and prickly off-putting unapproachability he wrapped himself in, to not get _too_ attached because sooner or later she’d wise up and toss him aside and move on…

Kiera jerked herself back together with a start, staring wide eyed as Lambert ducked his head under to wash the soap out of his hair, apparently oblivious to her perusal of the thoughts and emotions that he was unconsciously broadcasting.

 _Oh_.


End file.
